Empty Pages, Crowded Mirrors
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: And his smile... Not sad or full of scorn, not that of a madman either, and not just another polite mask. A normal smile. Merry. Dazzling. Terrifying. She has never seen him before. She knows him. She has never seen him, but he was beside her bed last night. Or was it last week? (Player meets the Merry Gentleman.)


**. . .**

 **Empty Pages, Crowded Mirrors**

 **. . .**

She is walking along the crowded street – a city is a city, after all, even if it is underground, with bats instead of pigeons and stalactites like icicled clouds. Urchins running, ladies gossiping – and gentlemen gossiping even more over their pipes. A stray cat meowing because someone stepped on its tail. Just another day – figuratively speaking, of course – in the Neath.

And then she notices the man walking towards her. Or perhaps just in the opposite direction. A gentleman, too – a stovepipe hat, an ivory cane in his hand, a well-groomed moustache over smiling lips.

There is something odd about him, something not quite fitting here, on now dayless streets that know nothing but shadows and the dim light of gas and oil lamps. The Neath is... slightly vague, a bit blurred, as if constantly covered by a thin – imperceptible – layer of fog or smoke. The colours are dulled... The colours! That's what's wrong! He wears nothing extraordinary – his suit is perfectly tailored and sombre-coloured, his hair dark and his skin pale, all perfectly normal, but somehow they seem almost garish. The hat, brown like Surface earth after the rain, the shirt, crisp-white – blinding; the gleam in his eyes, not toned downed like a reflection of a lamplight, nor glowing like the eyes of the denizens of Hell. Bright eyes, almost colourless, with just a hint of green or blue or... mirror. Two mirrors reflecting sunlight.

And his smile... Not sad or full of scorn, not that of a madman either, and not just another polite mask. A normal smile. Merry. Dazzling. Terrifying.

She has never seen him before. She knows him. She has never seen him, but he was beside her bed last night. Or was it last week?

She knows him. Should she greet him? But why, if she has never seen him? It hardly matters, another step or two and she will pass him by...

He takes her by the arm, the grip gentle enough not to crumple her dress, but firm all the same. She can feel how firm it is even if his fingers are barely touching her. Eight fingers.

"You dropped something, my lady," he says, in a kind, almost jovial voice, and hands her a book she is sure does not belong to her. Or did she lose it? It seems familiar. The pages call to her. Where did he find it? How? He was not holding it earlier, she is certain.

She nods, not quite able to speak, and forces her lips into a small smile. The book is not hers, but she takes it anyway. There's an empty space on her bedside table that screams its title.

The leather cover is warm under her hands, warm and dry like a snake. There are no letters on it.

. . .

At home she opens the book to read it... The pages are empty. She lies down, trying to sleep. The words burn in her mind, broken chapters, single, orphaned letters. Fireworks across clear, untouched pages. Flames drawn to the paper moth.

She gets up and starts pacing, her steps in rhythm to the water sloshing against the hull of the steamer. To-and-fro, to-and-fro. The book is humming a quiet melody to match it.

There is a glimpse in the mirror. Fire. Empty pages burned in the glass. But when she walks closer to inspect it, nothing. Just her eyes, her face, her nightdress. A pair of hands on her shoulders. Eight fingers.

"You forgot to say 'thank you', my lady," the gentleman says, his lips curving up. A merry smile. Dazzling. Terrifying. A flash of sunlight in mirror-coloured eyes. Dark hair that tickles like gossamer.

She whips round. There is no one behind her. She can still feel the deceivingly soft grip of his hands on her shoulders. She turns back to the mirror. A pale face framed by dark hair framed by shadows. A moon in the night sky. The moon smiles.

"Would you like to go for a walk, my lady?" The words smell of stale water and roses. A gloved hand reaches towards her from the glass. "The sun shines so brightly tonight." A merry smile. Terrifying. Dazzling.

It's been too long since she's last seen sunlight... She takes the hand and steps forward.


End file.
